its art by jonathan

They take turns guarding their meagre belongings while they go off to scrounge for food and gil, taking from equally catastrophe-stricken souls to keep themselves afloat in inn rooms and outskirts of towns.

W'rhinn, stubbornly, stupidly, desperately, still refuses to give up the hunter's mantle. W'rhill watches his back shift while he readies his equipment, crossing his arms and gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

"W'rhinn, let me go instead," he finally says.

"I can do it," W'rhinn bites back immediately, annoyed.

W'rhill scrubs a hand through his hair, trying to stave off the frustration. It was one thing for him to be so stubborn when they weren't pressed for supplies; now every arrow needs to count, and for him they seldom do. "We both know I'm faster, you should just stay back and—"

"Like it takes a prodigy to hunt antelopes?" W'rhinn spits out through gritted teeth. "I can do it."

"There's no one left to impress!" W'rhill says, exasperated.

W'rhinn snaps. He whirls around, eyes burning hatefully. "And who's fault is that?!" 

W'rhill opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat, jaw working soundlessly for a moment before he gives up with a muted sigh through his nose, eyes darting away.

"With how often you were trying to run away, I'm surprised you're not jumping for joy. You finally got what you wanted, right?"

"I didn't want them dead," W'rhill murmurs, voice cracking slightly. W'rhinn continues, either not hearing or not caring.

"Always making me come after you, making me choose between you and the tribe—you're the only one who actually wanted to die! Why couldn't it just have taken you?!"

W'rhill stares at him, a mist gathering in his eyes, the tightened edges of his lips barely quivering, and W'rhinn knows he's gone too far—but he's too proud to try and lessen the damage. Instead he says nothing, grabs his bow, and storms out.

W'rhill stares at the slammed-shut door for some time, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, drawing shallow breaths. He's trying to talk himself out of his own sorrow and anger. He knows, of course, that W'rhinn is right; it is unfair. It should have been just him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills away the ache, welcoming back in the familiar numbness he's trying to live in these days. Looking in mirrors makes it easier, but he doesn't want to see evidence of the tears staining his cheeks, so he settles into it the hard way.

When he breathes out calmly and opens his eyes again, still lingering on the door, he knows what to do. He's known for a little while now, but he was too anxious of W'rhinn getting hurt during his hunts to follow through on it. Or maybe that's what he was telling himself. Maybe, selfishly, he just didn't want to be completely alone, but he can't outrun it any longer. His presence only hurts W'rhinn more.

He leaves as much behind as he thinks he can get away with, taking the smallest of their bags. Traveling light will make him faster anyways. Not that he's worried about W'rhinn finding him, if he tried to go looking. W'rhill has always been the better hunter, and good hunters know how to disappear.

As he's packing, his eye catches on something that makes him pause. He brushes his thumb over his name, sewn into the lining of the backpack. The W stares at him accusatorily, with the same ire W'rhinn carried. He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed. Drawing his knife from his belt, he hooks it under the embroidered letters, methodically plucking them from the leather until all that remains are the holes left by his mother's sewing needle.

He sheathes his knife once more and stands, drawing his cloak around himself before slinging the bag over his shoulder and quietly exiting the room. There are no last glances back nor hesitation in his gait as he slips from the outpost.

"You need a haircut," he finally says. "It's impractical like that."

W'rhill wordlessly slips the braid over his shoulder, out of sight.

"Why do you keep it so long, anyway?"

"W'heo Tia has long hair too," W'rhill says.

"What, you want to look like W'heo?"

"...No."

“So why bring him up?”

W’rhill says nothing. W'rhinn rolls his eyes.

They were told to bring back something impressive, and after a little tracking and a lot of bickering, they've settled on the trail of a wild boar. Going by the substantial broken underbrush and deep hoofprints in the soft earth they're following, it should be hefty.

Their sour mood is matched by the weather, the occasional rumble interrupting the quiet of the forest. They both keep glancing heavensward, neither of them voicing their growing concern for the dark clouds creeping in, strangling the sky until the dappled sun lighting their way through the canopies is entirely gone.

"We should find cover," W'rhill sighs, coming to a stop.

W'rhinn shakes his head, overtaking him. "We'll lose the trail."

"Just track another once it passes."

"You mean after the fucking rain has pissed it all away?"

"Yes. Stop being stupid."

"Stop being scared."

W'rhill scoffs. "Do I look scared to you?"

He doesn't in the slightest, but W'rhinn shoves his brother's chest regardless as he turns from him. "Go find your little hideaway to cower in while I get the prey."

"You can't take it down alone!" W'rhill shouts after his back. W'rhinn ignores him, fist clenching tighter around his bow as he stomps away. W'rhill doesn't follow.

Drops of rain start hitting his skin, but they don't deter him; if anything, they add to his annoyed determination, the blood pounding in his ears just as deafeningly as the steadily mounting rainfall.

He only slows once the scent of wet hog hits him, prompting him to start stepping more carefully as to not alert the animal. He crouches among the bushes, peering through the trees until he spots the large boar, snuffling in the wet grass. W’rhinn nocks an arrow, taking careful aim and inching closer.

Behind him, he hears a growl.

W’rhinn whips around, knuckles going pale from the force with which he grips his bow. There in the dim stands a wolf, watching him intently. W’rhinn lets out a choked gasp, frozen in place. His grasp on the wood and string slips, his nocked arrow arcing uselessly into the underbrush. The wolf snarls. W’rhinn slips on the mud, heels skidding away beneath him as he tries to back away. He only succeeds in tripping himself, unable to stifle a quiet whimper as he hits the ground. His frantic movements agitate it, its hackles bristling, yet he can’t stop his legs moving to kick himself away from the threat. It lunges. Just as it does, a figure lurches from the shadows. 

W'rhinn barely suppresses a shriek as the silhouette kicks off from a tree stump and lands on the back of the wolf, intercepting its path towards him. Their braid whips in the wind during the brief struggle, where they dig their knees into the furious creatures muscles for support before planting their blade deep in its jugular. The wolf emits a loud, chilling howl that quickly dies away into a whining mewl in the few seconds it takes it to bleed out. It collapses in a limp heap.

W’rhinn lies on his elbows on the ground, panting fiercely, watching W’rhill’s shadowed frame hop off the creature's back. 

"Are you okay?" W’rhill asks, coming closer.

W’rhinn swallows. "You scared the boar away."

W’rhill ignores him. "Are you okay?" he asks again, leaning down to check him over. Now, W’rhinn can clearly see the fresh blood sprayed across his chest and face.

"I'm fine," W’rhinn says, batting away his helping hands and pushing himself up to stand on his own with considerable effort, a shameful heat burning his face as he struggles to take back control of his stiff and shaking limbs.

“If you say so,” W’rhill says in one of his muted sighs, turning his attention back to the dead wolf. He kneels before it, reaching to gently stroke its ear. “...Kind of ironic. I wonder why it was alone.”

W’rhinn stares at it, his mouth feeling dry. There are a few possible answers to W'rhill's idle musing, but he can't get his brain to stop spinning to look for them.

W’rhill looks back at him, eyes scanning over his face. After a moment, he wrenches his hunting knife from the wolf's neck, sheathing it as he stands. “Follow me."

“Where?” W'rhinn asks, though his legs immediately obey the order, anxious to get away from the corpse.

"You know, my hideaway. For cowering."

W'rhinn's lip curls in an effort to restrain a laugh, glancing over his shoulder at the still creature, checking for any shifting fur. “What about the wolf?”

“The forest will take care of it,” W’rhill says. “Nunh probably wouldn’t be too happy about us bringing back our namesake dead.”

W’rhinn mutters that it’s wasteful, even as the muscles in his shoulders untense with relief.

W’rhill’s hideway turns out to be a sizeable crook in the wall beneath a rocky overhang; not quite deep enough to be a cave, but suitable shelter for their purposes. W'rhinn sinks into the dried foliage, not even trying to pretend at being useful for making camp. W'rhill picks up the slack, pulling dried bark, twigs and logs from their oilcloth rucksack, for once proving the worth of the ache in their backs from hauling around its heft. He clears out a spot for the fire, digging out a pit to build it in. W'rhinn watches him while he works, his blood-streaked face impassive, betraying no fatigue nor irritation.

"...Thanks, Rhill," W'rhinn mumbles.

"Mh," W'rhill responds.

Normally, they might both prefer to leave it at that; but finding oneself stuck in the woods for hours, with little else to do except look at one another, will wear even the most moody of teenaged boys down into an introspective and conversational state.

When they were younger, W’rhill wasn’t always so quiet. ‘W’rhill the triller’, their cousins like to call him, with varying levels of fondness and sincerity, for he loved to sing and strum and dance. W’rhinn thinks he’s the only one to have noticed that there has been no trilling from him for more than a year now, and almost as little talking.

On the contrary, he only grows more efficient with his bow and arrow. Evidently he doesn’t fare too poorly at hand-to-hand combat either. He excels at everything W’rhinn toils to achieve, yet all he does is get quieter and quieter. Every time he thinks about it, it pisses W'rhinn off. There's an edge to that anger that he just can't place.

"Why..." W'rhinn trails off, trying to piece the words together.

W'rhill bites his lip, brow furrowing as he glances down. "I just like it."

"Huh?"

"I just like it long." He draws his knees up to his chest, resting his folded arms atop. "That's the only reason."

Oh, his hair. "Huh," W'rhinn says. The pelting rain has scoured tracks of mud across his face, blending together with the arrowed markings beneath his eyes, making them indistinguishable. "It makes you look like mum.”

W'rhill tucks his chin into his arms, hiding the lower half of his face. "Mh."

"Sorry."

W'rhill shakes his head, denying the apology. "It's fine, I don't care." W'rhinn can't tell if he's lying.

"Do you ever get tired of being a mysterious asshole?" he asks, annoyed. W'rhill tilts his head up again, the corner of his mouth pulled into the slightest smirk.

"No. Do you ever get tired of being a loud idiot?"

"Whatever." W'rhinn looks out at the rain. If he seems to be smiling, it's a trick of the light. "Why don't you ever sing anymore?"

The question is out of him before he can think about it, catching W'rhill just as off-guard as himself.

"...I sing," W’rhill says, eyes downcast. "Just... When I'm alone."

"Okay, well, why only alone? You're impossible."

"Why do you even care?"

W'rhinn opens his mouth to respond, a strangled vowel escaping his throat and dying off as he realizes he doesn't have an answer. He shuts his jaw again with a click and crosses his arms, and the two fall into silence once more.

"I don't," W'rhinn says.

W'rhill looks up from the fire. “Hm?”

"I don't care if you don't. Or if you do. So." W’rhinn avoids his gaze. "It wouldn't make a difference to me, if you wanted to sing."

W’rhill stares at him for a moment. His eyes hesitantly dart to his instrument case at his side, its carrying strap the only one he didn’t untangle from his person as they sat down for camp. He gingerly starts to undo the buckles holding it shut. "...What do you want to hear?" W’rhinn cringes and shrugs, expressing indifference. Anything. Anything.

Both their voices have grown deeper since last summer, so W’rhinn is surprised to hear the notes flow from W’rhill at just the pitch they used to. It sounds practiced and deliberate, carrying him through what W’rhinn recognizes to be a mourning song. He lets his head tilt back to rest against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes and listening.

“What are we grieving?” He asks softly, some time after the last chord has died away.

“The wolf,” W’rhill says. “Someone has to.”

W’rhinn’s brow furrows as his eyes open again, the mention of the animal reawakening his frustration. The tip of his tail flicks against the dirt, and he starts picking at his nail beds in thought. “I should’ve stood my ground. It could tell I—...” he cuts himself off, embarrassed. 

“It’s pretty normal to be afraid of wolves,” W’rhill says.

Despite his annoyance, denial is useless. “You weren’t afraid.”

“...No.”

W’rhinn pauses. He looks over at his brother, unsure. “Why weren’t you afraid?”